The Epic Expedition
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: Or... "I Should Have Pushed the Idiot off of the Cliff While I Still Had the Chance". Some sort of sequel to The Wyvern Warlock.


_Yet another thought experiment of mine, aptly named…_

_The Epic Expedition_

_Or… _

_I Should Have Pushed the Idiot off of the Cliff While I Still Had the Chance_

_Also known as…_

_An Attempt at Some Sort of a Continuation of the Wyvern Warlock_

_(This probably won't end well…)_

**- o0o -**

In hindsight, it had all started with an idiot trespassing into his humble abode, mind set on dragon-slaying and of robbing him of his supposed riches, and what other supposedly heroic deeds had been on said idiot's mind at the time. As such, in hindsight, Arthur Kirkland – also known as the Wyvern Warlock to some – really ought to have done more than give the brat a serious talking to before sending him home – if anything, he really should have taken the chance to push the ungrateful sod off the mountain and prayed to higher powers that the other's thick-headedness would not aid him in surviving the fall, but alas, he had decided to play nice and it had all come back to haunt him, as usual.

Truly, he should have known better – even without possessing the gift of foresight, he did possess a great deal of experience on the subject of dealing with obnoxious morons. However, as things would seem, this particular moron was of an unknown and rather persistent breed that just wouldn't take no for an answer.

He – Arthur Kirkland, that is – had strengthened the wards; he had even set up a few traps along the mountainside to deter possible hero wannabes from trying it out, but oh no, the idiot just had to climb all the way up, crawling up over the edge to the entrance to the cave that was his humble abode, surprising him – the Wyvern Warlock – where he had idly been making notes in an old tome whilst having some tea. And, just to add to the injury, said idiot had proceeded to gravely insult his ability to cook, going as far as to refer to his scones as burnt lumps of uneatable "yuckiness" – completely disregarding the fact that "yuckiness" was not even a an actual word in the first place.

Admittedly, cooking was not and had never been his forte. Then again, he was a warlock and not a chef, thus his cooking skills should be perfectly adequate as far as he himself was concerned. For one thing, he simply did not have much of a talent for cooking in the first place; once, he had been somewhat ashamed of that and had attempted to make amends, but before long he had realised the pointlessness of it. After all, as long as he himself could stomach the things he managed to whip up, what on earth would be the problem?

The meddlesome idiot had then – once again, without as much as a mere shred of common courtesy – opened his pie-hole and had proceeded to sputter rapid nonsensical gibberish at him all whilst flailing desperately with his arms. Naturally, his – the warlock's – interest had been piqued, but with the speed the other's speech was going, there really wasn't much he would be able to make sense of, seeing that his ability to comprehend in "moronic" was rudimentary at best. Nevertheless, after some coaxing, the idiot – who was by then already out of breath – finally managed to convey his message to the warlock before dropping to the cave floor in a dead faint, all whilst said warlock had averted his eyes from the spectacle, pinching the bridge of his nose all whilst feeling the coming onslaught of a severe migraine.

Truth to be told, he probably should have pushed the damned brat off of the damned cliff. Truth to be told, he probably should have rolled the then-prone body over to the edge and let gravity have its way, but alas, the young man's words and obvious distress over the matter at hand had struck a chord in him, ensuring that he would not be able to go along with the aforementioned plan without feeling an uncomfortable twinge of something – presumably guilt – course through him.

Then again, it certainly hadn't been his fault that the idiot's brother had been taken.

Then again, it certainly hadn't been any of his responsibility to help out in any way. Truly, it was not…

Then again, if the latest rumours were true in regards to Lord Ivan's latest bout of insanity, Arthur had eventually reached the conclusion that it would probably only be a question of time before the problem in question would reach his nonexistent doorstep anyhow.

Gosh…

Monday mornings – how he hated them…

**- o0o -**

Monday afternoon found him standing before a smithy – the same he recalled the cumbersome brat was or had at some point been employed in – with said brat's arm draped over his shoulders, and said brat's drool on his cloak, seeing that said idiot hadn't woken up since his latest fainting fit, leaving the frustrated warlock to suspect that the brat ought to have been drugged at some point.

Thus, said warlock found himself standing outside said smithy all while supporting said idiot – and he was heavy, god damn it! While he had been in the shape of a dragon, the weight had been fairly easy to handle, but as a human… not so much. He cursed under his breath, tightening his hold on the other's arm, frowning openly.

Regardless of the fact that he currently had an unconscious drooling idiot draped over his shoulder – which was rather disgusting actually, but by no means the most disgusting thing he had ever been through – he was a gentleman at heart, unlike those other uncultivated brutes populating the region. As such, he really did feel that he should knock, especially so when it was the combined working place and residence of an unknown – of a man he had only glimpsed on his occasional visits to the villages nearby – but with his hands busy supporting the outrageous weight of the aforementioned idiot, just how the Hell was he supposed to…?

An exasperated sigh escaped him, and he closed his eyes briefly, gathering strength all while silently cursing his bleeding heart. Then, there was something nearby – sending a slight tingle down his spine – and his eyes snapped open. At first, there was nothing, but then a small orb of light entered his line of vision, and his eyes zeroed in on it, widening slightly. At first glance, he would merely have taken it as one of the _fairy people_ living in the woodlands near his mountain, but if one looked closer it became apparent that the thing – whatever it was – was nothing he recognised. Opening his mouth, he intended to address it, but before he was able to do so it darted off, disappearing into the smithy in a great hurry.

Soon, a surprised voice was heard from within – speaking some foreign gibberish – apparently addressing the strange fairy or elf or whatever it was. Then, he could vaguely pick up the sound of feet being dragged against dirt floors, approaching, all while he swallowed soundly – but not out of fear but rather out of the embarrassing sight he would be to behold for whoever turned up to meet him.

Then, following a few moments of tense silence, a light-haired person in their late teens or early twenties emerged from the living quarters, entering his line of sight. The brightly-coloured garb the other wore caught him off guard for a moment, but the guard was swiftly back in place when big violet eyes – vivid in their colour and full of expression – fell on him. The eyes widened slightly, displaying a myriad of different emotions, before the other sagged slightly in his posture, supporting himself more heavily against the doorway, clearly favouring his left leg.

"Thank _Ahti, Antero Vipunen, Ilmarinen, Kuu, Pekko, Perkele, Pellervo, Tapio_ and _Ukko_!" the violet-eyed youth chanted in one single breath, pausing momentarily before continuing. "And you, of course…"

The Wyvern Warlock kicked eyebrow up, momentarily mystified. Then, he remembered the drooling idiot he was still supporting, and had something akin to an epiphany on what the other could possibly be thanking him for.

"I honestly thought I had managed to administer an appropriate dose, but then he just ran off," the violet-eyed youth explained, his expression apologetic. "I…"

The warlock merely snorted, having determined that the person before him posed no actual threat to him. "You have a lot of Gods," he then said, earning a somewhat sheepish smile in return, though it vanished nearly instantly the moment shuffling was heard, and an imposing figure standing in the doorway, eyes narrowing and darkening at the sight of him.

Arthur – being the renowned warlock that he was – did not cower beneath the man's chilling gaze. He did however lower his head slightly in a manner of greeting, tightening his grip somewhat onto the arm of the idiot that was still sleeping on his back, drooling all over his once so utterly magnificent cloak.

Then, the man – whom he had already recognised as the blacksmith of whom the idiot still drooling all over his once so utterly magnificent coat had at some point been an apprentice – took a step forward, menacingly. However, before Arthur himself was even able to start working on a spell to defend himself in case the other decided to attack him, the violet-eyed young man had already stepped between them, grimacing slightly as he ended up putting a bit too much weight onto his presumably injured leg but persevering nonetheless, putting an arm out to the side and then proceeded to speak rapidly in some foreign language, presumably trying to explain the situation, as much as it could be explained at any rate. Whichever was the case, the imposing blacksmith finally stood down, making a slight gesture towards the living quarters from which he had just exited, seemingly prompting them to enter as well, and Arthur – somehow very much aware of that said living quarters with all due likelihood contained some sort of cot where he could dump the sleeping idiot whose weight he was still carrying – found no reason not to oblige.

**- o0o -**

Tuesday morning had him returning to his humble abode up in the mountains, exhausted and cursing his own inability to stay uninvolved, as he had – after what had seemed like hours upon hours of pestering once the idiot had finally woken up – finally agreed to join the idiot otherwise known as Alfred F. Jones on his epic expedition to save his unfortunate little brother from the henchmen of Ivan the Terrible, henchmen that for whichever reason had initially mistaken the aforementioned little brother for another sorcerer, and then ended up bringing him along anyway, presumably as something akin to a consolation prize as the person they had really been looking for – the violet-eyed mage Tino – had managed to escape their pursuit. The aforementioned mage had – though he was seemingly terrified of the man – also agreed on tagging along with them, more out of guilt than anything as the aforementioned younger brother had been taken in his stead, something Arthur quite imagined did not sit all too well with the mage.

Also joining the party were the imposing blacksmith – one Berwald Oxenstierna – who without as much as a word had rounded up a few more or less impressive-looking axes and blades. Even Tino – who had admittedly lived with the man for these last couple of days whilst waiting for his leg to heal enough for him to walk with it – looked vaguely impressed though it was hardly very easy to tell as the emotions reflected in the other's eyes were conflicted, mirrored by his body language and noticeable tensing. As a contrast to this was the idiot, who gaped outright, claiming he had no bloody idea that the other had ever been in possession of such things, and if he had then Arthur supposed that the idiot would have brought a greater amount of armaments along for their initial encounter.

In any case, Arthur had ultimately been pestered until he had finally yielded and promised to assist in this impromptu rescue mission, and he was not happy about it. Thus, he returned to his humble abode with two alternatives, namely to either assemble some supplies for the journey or screw this whole quest and make a run for it. Personally, he was itching for the latter, but knew that if he did, he would have to live with the consequences of his decision – not so much with the guilt, but with the knowledge that he would probably get himself cursed if he did, because even if Alfred F. Jones held no magic, Tino certainly had enough magic to spare and was probably more than capable. As for Jones and magic, it was rather the opposite when it came to him; magic occasionally seemed unable to stick to him at all, which was admittedly weird and merited further investigation, even though Arthur himself was – to say the very least – quite reluctant in terms of spending any additional time in the other's presence. After all, with that amount of stupidity in the air, the condition might even be contagious.

He went further into the cave, heading for the library, because a possibly perilous journey ahead of him or not, he needed to bring along at least some light reading to keep himself if not entertained then from strangling the obnoxious hero wannabe of the party. After all, that much was to be expected. What he did not expect on the other hand was to find that someone had already beaten him there.

For several moments, he was just left standing there, regarding the other with surprise which gradually melted into a light frown. Then finally, he spoke up, not quite sure as to how he ought to greet the other after all this time. "You've cut your hair," he finally noted, folding his arms across his chest.

The vaguely familiar blond – who stood with his back to him – turned his head slightly, regarding him calmly with his strange dull bluish eyes. "That I have."

"Why?" he pressed on.

"You mean the hair?" the dull-eyed one inquired, fingering the blond bang framing the right part of his face whilst the other was held back by a cross-shaped hairpiece, neither of which were obstructed by the dark bluish violet beret the other was wearing, and its colour matched that of his outfit in general, which appeared somewhat custom-made but bore a clear resemblance to the type of clothes he had seen at some court at some point. "Kept getting tangled… And then the idiot went on about wanting to braid it; it was either the hair or his throat," the sorcerer finally said, though his facial expression remained largely deadpan, which in his case was nothing unusual; Arthur even doubted the other had any greater variety of expression besides indifferent and annoyed.

Arthur supposed this was not the opportune moment to point out that the other's clothes looked distinctively… effeminate, even though when it all came down to it, there were cultural differences as well as temporal ones; years ago, the aforementioned garb probably would not have stood out or been labelled as effeminate in the least. Then again, compared to the garb the other had been wearing when they had first met, just about anything looked…

He shook his head, dispelling the thought to focus on more pressing matters instead. "Why are you here, Nor?" he asked. "How did you find me?"

The other – Nor, the sorcerer; the mage – turned around fully and lifted his hand. One of the fairies frequenting Arthur's lair landed on the other's hand, grinning somewhat sheepishly in Arthur's direction before darting off with a giggle, moving past him whilst Arthur resisted a sudden urge to reach out, grab her and demand that she did not do such a thing ever again. Admittedly, Nor was not – or at least had not been – an enemy of his, but having the fairies guide others to his lair without his permission and even against his explicit orders did not sit all too well with him; not well at all actually.

"Nor…" he began, intent on repeating his earlier request for information, when a little kid with white hair suddenly chose the moment to stumble into the library, looking like he had just woken up. The kid seemed to be heading off in direction of the Norwegian, but paused, only then appearing to notice Arthur where he stood, outright staring now that he had caught sight of the vivid colour of the kid's eyes, noting that they looked an awful lot like Tino's and by default a lot like Ivan's. Noticing his scrutiny, the kid scrambled off in Nor's direction, taking shelter behind the other's legs whilst glaring at Arthur where he stood.

"Nor…" Arthur found himself repeating, forcing himself to keep calm. "Explain."

He had a distinct feeling he was not going to like this.

**- o0o -**


End file.
